by A K Reynolds
The room whirled as the words ‘mortgage fraud’ flashed up like a neon sign in my head.
‘It can’t be.’
‘Would you like me to give you a print-out?’
‘I think you’d better.’
He handed it to me and I sat in one of the seats at the side of the concourse to peruse it. It confirmed what the letter had told me. My house had a mortgage on it amounting to 90% of its market value. The mortgage was in my name. It was a shocking revelation. I’d owned my house mortgage-free almost since leaving university. I’d been planning to transfer it into the joint names of me and Sarina in the near future. Something had gone very wrong. Fraudsters had somehow ripped me off. But I couldn’t devote any time to getting to the bottom of it and putting matters to rights as I had bigger fish to fry. There was the small issue of preserving my life to attend to, for example. So I put the mortgage debt to the back of my mind where it joined all the other major problems I’d already put there, and I headed for the Santander in Piccadilly. My chambers paid my professional earnings into an account there. Santander let me withdraw £2,000 in cash, which I reckoned would keep me going for the foreseeable future, being as I already had at least that much on me courtesy of Travers Doyle.
My plan had been to lie low with Duke Muldoon for a while. I decided to postpone that plan in favour of finding out what the information was that Tara’s mobile phone contained. After making sure the coast was clear, I sneaked into a shop doorway and switched it on.
When it’d booted itself up, I checked the contacts directory and document folders. Both were empty. The photo gallery contained a number of anodyne images of Tara’s house and garden, but nothing of significance. There was no record of any calls ever having been made on the mobile phone. It contained a number of apps – a clock, calendar, Messenger, calculator, maps, entertainment, games, news, sports, shopping, banking, government, travel, and reference, to name a few. I tried them all. Not one seemed out of the ordinary. What was I missing?
Tara had obviously hidden the information in case the mobile and her note about it got into the wrong hands. She didn’t want it to give up its information to the wrong person. The problem was, she’d done too good a job. She’d made it inaccessible to the right person.
I caught a black taxi from Peter House (a risk, but a lesser one than a minicab) and went to Shrewsbury road in Prestwich, hoping that Rustin, my IT expert, would be able to show me what I’d missed.
As I walked up the narrow concrete path to Rustin’s house, I wondered whether I should mention to him that his neglected garden needed some urgent TLC. In his line of work, and with his customer base, he didn’t want to be drawing attention to himself. I rang the bell and heard the same whirring I’d heard during my previous visit, as one of his automated cameras focused on my face.
I looked directly at it and said:
‘It’s me again, open up.’
Unlike on my previous visit, Rustin didn’t respond. There was no voice from a hidden speaker, no buzzing noise informing me the door was unlocking itself. I tried to peer through the windows but the curtains were drawn.
Strange. Could he really be in bed at this time?
On impulse I tried the door handle. Much to my surprise, the door opened so I stepped over the threshold into Rustin’s generously proportioned hall. Then I eased the door shut behind me as quietly as I could. My instincts were telling me to get the hell out, but instead I tiptoed down the hall and cautiously opened the door to the front room. Silent as an SAS operative on a clandestine mission, I entered the front room, walked past a low-level occasional table, and saw Rustin. I immediately took a couple of noisy steps backwards, tripping over the table which was now behind me, and falling painfully to the floor. The clatter my pratfall made scared me shitless.
As for Rustin, he was sitting at his bank of computers, staring at me with his head on one shoulder, his spectacles at a slant. He was tied to his swivelling office chair and had duct tape wrapped around his head, covering his mouth and was entirely naked, his flabby body and legs and even his genitalia covered in what looked like cigarette burns. Three of his fingers and four of his toes were lying on the floor, along with a bloodied tree lopper. A clear plastic bag covered his head, secured around his neck with a length of duct tape. The mist on the inside of the bag suggested he hadn’t been dead for long, not that I’m an expert. As to the reason he’d been whacked, it could’ve been because he’d helped me track down Jenrack, Rockwell, and Stronach. Or simply because he’d been in contact with me, and someone thought he knew where I was. But there was no point in wasting time on idle speculation. What I had to focus on was getting away in one piece and getting to Duke Muldoon’s.
Hardly daring to breathe, I got back on my feet.
I had no car, and therefore no means of getting to Muldoon’s house in the Peak District other than by using public transport. That would leave me with a long and arduous walk from the nearest railway station or bus stop to his house up in the hills. The risk of being out and about in places Hench and his team might see me increased a hundredfold by the need to walk places to catch trains and buses. A taxi, which could solve these problems, wouldn’t be a great idea. It’d mean there would be a taxi-driver in the city who knew where I’d gone to ground. Sooner or later, that knowledge might somehow reach the wrong people. Top and bottom of it was, I needed a car.
Rustin had a car, a white Volkswagen T-Roc, the ideal vehicle for negotiating the treacherous roads of the national park. I found his keys hanging from a hook in his kitchen and gratefully requisitioned them.
‘Thank you, Rustin,’ I said, making my way past his body to the door. ‘I hope you’re in a better place now.’
I meant it, but somehow doubted he was. And the thought I might have played some part in his murder was giving me a burden of guilt I could do without. That said, the world was probably a better place without him. He’d helped me, but who else had he helped in his time? As with so many other crims I’d defended, if I’d made a balls-up of his defence when I’d conducted it, I’d have done the world a favour.
I spent a paranoid minute or two checking the coast was clear, although in truth it was likely the killer was long gone, before leaving Rustin’s house. His Volkswagen was parked on the tarmac drive at the side of the house. As I climbed in a neighbour across the street looked at me and narrowed his eyes. Christ, I hadn’t given any thought to the possibility his neighbours might clock me. They hadn’t turned a hair when he’d been attacked, tortured, and killed. But car theft was something they wouldn’t stand for.
I walked across the road.
‘I’m helping Rustin out,’ I said, hoping the trapper hat I was wearing would make it difficult for the nosey neighbour to identify me if he was called on to do so in the future. ‘He’s got a cold and he’s asked me to do his fetching and carrying till he gets better.’
Nosey Neighbour, a greying sixty-something-year-old with an unfriendly face, grunted an acknowledgement of my presence. I thought that was all he was going to say, but as I turned to go, he added, ‘Tell him to keep the bloody noise down, will you? This morning he was playing his music so loud that you could hear it all the way to the far end of the street.’
‘Will do,’ I replied, wondering if his killer had turned up the music to drown out Rustin’s cries of pain.
At least I’d convinced the neighbour I wasn’t a car thief. That had bought me a little precious time. It meant he wouldn’t be reporting me to the police in the near future.
Returning to Rustin’s car, I switched on the ignition, keyed Muldoon’s address into the built-in satnav, and set off for the Peak District.
During the journey I observed the traffic behind me in the rear-view mirror far more often than I usually did, in order to check whether anyone was following me. A police car appeared just behind me and I shuddered. Did the cops have a reason to be on my tail? Had I attracted their attention? I was only doing thirty.
It couldn’t have been my speed that had alerted them. The vehicle accelerated, the lights on its roof flashing, its siren wailing loud enough to wake the dead. With feelings akin to those of a condemned woman walking to the gallows, I slowed the car to a stop. The cop car overtook me.
Sighing, I re-started my journey, taking a few turns here and there the satnav didn’t think of, such as driving into a car park and out of it again, to make sure that if I was being followed, I’d know about it. Consequently it was touching noon when I drove up the little known track leading from Edale road to the plateau overlooking Mam Torr ridge to the west and Ladybower Reservoir to the east. My recently acquired Volkswagen T-Roc nimbly ascended the track, even though it was steep and surfaced in loose rubble.
About three quarters of the way up the slope the path slanted right, levelled off, and became a cobbled drive leading to a collection of stone buildings set on three terraces carved into the side of the hill. This was Muldoon’s house. He’d bought an old tumbledown agricultural property while in his pomp as a gangster, and had persuaded the park authorities to allow him to convert it into a dwelling, subject to retaining its agricultural character. He’d certainly complied with that requirement. Apart from the lack of any obnoxious smells issuing from the place, it gave the impression of having been home to generations of farmers.
A green Subaru Forester was parked at the side of the foremost building. I guessed it was Muldoon’s, and was grateful he was at home. Slowing to the pace of a stroll on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I manoeuvred the Volkswagen so that it was behind the Subaru and neatly in line with it, and stopped the engine. When I removed my hands from the steering wheel, they left wet patches on it. My shirt was damp under my armpits. It had been a trying day, and it wasn’t yet over, and the stress I’d experienced had taken its toll. Breathing deeply to calm myself down, I took in my surroundings.
From this elevation there was a view to my right of Mam Torr and the land beyond it, consisting of green fields, clumps of trees, stone cottages, rolling hills, and drystone walls. To my left was the nearest of the squat and imposingly solid farm buildings which Muldoon had made into his home. It had a series of mullioned windows at regular intervals and a shallow-pitched slate roof. The door was adjacent to the third window along the wall. I left the car and walked to Muldoon’s door, an icy blast of wind slamming into my face which came close to tearing the hat from my head. Grabbing it to make sure it didn’t blow away, I made a mental note to tie the straps on it if I ventured outdoors in these parts again.
I pressed the bell and waited. The door opened and Muldoon appeared. He was short for a man, only four inches taller than me, but about three times as wide. His width seemed to be a common trait among gangster types. His shaven head was the size and shape of a football. He had a deeply lined face, no neck to speak of, and a stomach twice as big as his impressively large chest. His legs were short and bowed, giving him an odd side-to-side waddle when he walked, like that of a sailor on a storm-tossed ship. On seeing me he creased his big face into a frown, then creased it the other way into a broad grin.
‘Well, if it isn’t my old comrade-in-arms Jo Finnegan. Come in.’
I readily accepted his invitation and he shut the door behind me.
‘Give me your coat and hat.’
I peeled off my things and he hung them on a couple of hooks near the door before leading me along a narrow hall to his front room.
‘Take a seat.’
The walls of Muldoon’s house were lime-plastered and painted in delicate shades of grey, and the floors were reclaimed timber, with rugs strategically placed in the spaces between his items of expensive furniture. It seemed he had rather more taste than the villains I’d met so far during my unplanned journey into the bowels of Manchester’s underworld. That said, his good taste didn’t extend to his wardrobe. He was wearing a red T-shirt with the words: Cock of the Walk emblazoned over the front of it in blue lettering, bright green cargo shorts, and orange flip-flops. His bulky legs were covered in dense black hair, and it’s safe to assume I didn’t find them in the least bit sexy. In spite of the limited amount of clothes he had on, Muldoon’s forehead was glistening with sweat.
I selected a grey squirrel coloured armchair that looked like it’d come from the sort of shop that Sarina liked to buy furniture from and plonked myself down in it.
Muldoon sat in a similar chair opposite me, his eyeballs tracking up and down as he studied my face. ‘It looks like you’ve had a spot of bother, Jo.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year, Duke. I’m well in the sticky stuff at the moment and I need some help to get out of it, I’m afraid.’
‘You’ve come to the right place. What did you think of my book, by the way?’
His question put me on the spot. I’d read as much of it as I could manage before the endless catalogue of beatings-up and vendettas finally got too much for me. They got too much for me by page thirty.
‘It was a real page-turner, Duke. I particularly enjoyed the bit where you nailed Smiler Drumlin’s right hand to the card table for cheating at poker.’
That particular anecdote appeared on the first page. It was all downhill from there on in.
Muldoon threw his head back and laughed. ‘The little toe-rag never cheated again after that. Not with me, anyway.’
‘Nice one,’ I said, thinking I should curry favour. ‘It pays to let people know you mean business.’
‘It sure does, Jo.’ He cocked his head to one side then the other, noting the different injuries on my face. ‘What’s happened to you, and why do you need my help?’
My mind quickly went into overdrive. I knew I’d have to tell Muldoon some of the details, but I wanted to tell him as little as possible. You get like that when you’ve killed people.
‘Long story,’ I said, playing for time as I composed a convincing but false narrative in my head. ‘Someone seems to think I know something, but I don’t. I don’t have a clue what he’s after. That same person sent some goons to beat me up. They did a good job, but I escaped. If they get hold of me again, they’ll kill me, unless I give them what they want. The problem is, I can’t give them what they want because I don’t have it and don’t even know what it is. So I need to lie low somewhere safe and think about how I’m going to get out of the fix I’m in.’
He cupped his chin in a hand that was as big as both of mine put together.
‘Who’s the person who had you beaten up?’
I shrugged, holding out my hands, palm up.
‘I don’t even know that. If I did, it’d be a start.’
He stood up, reached out, and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Your worries are over, for now at least. As long as you weren’t followed, no-one will find you here.’ A concerned look flitted across his seamed features. ‘You weren’t followed, were you?’
‘I’m sure I wasn’t. I took a lot of precautions.’
That seemed to satisfy him.
‘We’ll work things out. But first, how about a cup of tea?’
I was gagging for one, probably because I’d lost a lot of fluid through sweating like a pig in a heatwave, all the way from Prestwich to Edale.
‘Yes, please. Milk but no sugar.’
‘You just do your best to relax.’
He waddled to the kitchen and I heard him pottering about filling the kettle and putting crockery on a worktop. After about five minutes he returned with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands. How he managed to avoid spilling them with that waddling gait of his, I’ll never know. He handed one to me and sat down heavily in his chair.
‘The old knees aren’t what they used to be,’ he said. ‘But I reckon I could still chin most of the hard men in my old stomping ground. All it would take would be one of these.’ He clenched his massive fist and shook it.
‘I believe you.’
‘I’ve got a spare bedroom and everything else you’ll need to be comfortable while you
’re here. You can stay as long as you want. What are your plans?’
‘I don’t have any at the moment, Duke.’ Duke owed me his liberty and it was obvious he hadn’t forgotten. He wanted to repay me. He was willing to do that by providing a sanctuary. What else might he be able to do for me? ‘I’ve got another favour to ask you if you don’t mind.’
‘No problemo. Ask away.’
‘I have a mobile phone which could be my get-out-of-jail-free ticket. It might contain some sort of secret message which will help me. But I can’t get at the message. Is there someone you know and trust who could help me with that?’
‘I know someone who’s a dab hand with technology. He’s as reliable as they come. I’d trust him with my life. I’ll give him a call.’
‘Thanks Duke.’
And while I’m at it I’ll put out some feelers for you. I still have a lot of contacts in Manchester. They could find out who wants something from you and what it is they want. I might even be able to negotiate some kind of truce for you, so you could go back to living a normal life.’
I was willing to put my faith in Muldoon’s technical bod as he was Muldoon’s personal contact. But I didn’t feel I could allow information about me to be disseminated to anyone else who was a member of Manchester’s criminal fraternity. I’d seen first-hand how they operated. And I was worried that even Muldoon might not be able to trust them.
‘Let me think about it,’ I said.
He seemed to read my mind. ‘If you’re worried they might not keep their word, don’t be. I have enough clout to make sure no one in Manchester steps out of line. And a few other cities I could name as well.’
Having read the first twenty or so bloodcurdling pages of Muldoon’s autobiography, I was prepared to believe his boast, but was inclined to err on the side of caution.